The faint scent of Henry’s cologne lingers in the air. It’s a tiny dorm, a wooden bookshelf in the corner, piles of book stacking up on the floor next to it. There’s a mantle piece of Apollo and a small black Greek vase adorned with golden portraits of deities; Artemis, Athena and Dionysus. The Iliad is in his hands as he drapes an arm carelessly over you. Henry recites the first verse, his voice deep yet gentle. “The wrath sing, goddess, of Peleus' son, Achilles”